


Took a Knife and Drove it Deep

by AceQueenKing



Category: NieR: Automata (Video Game)
Genre: (of a sort), Canonical Character Death, F/M, Missing Scene, Murder, POV Second Person, Reincarnation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-16 11:21:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13052994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: You never seem to remember until it is too late. It's only then you're given the option of remembering the bitter salt of 9S' tears, the burning pain of your wounds. You have lived and died with him far too many times.





	Took a Knife and Drove it Deep

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Moonsheen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonsheen/gifts).



You awaken in a room.

Your systems boot up slowly, gradually. You watch the diagnostic systems click through, going through your various systems and sub-systems: memories, hard drive, core processes. Your vision restores. It is dark. The room is spartan. There are clothes, folded neatly on the table. There is a screen; it is not lit up. There are two glasses on the table. They are both empty.

You stand up uneasily as your motor sensors whirl online. You move your legs, testing your reflexes. They are sufficient. You test your arms - sufficient also.

"Good morning!" A voice says in your aural receiver as your audio sensors come online. "How do you feel today, 2E?" 

"I am online," you say. You look down, you see your form. It is a new body, one given to you for this mission. It is not your first mission. But you do not know which mission it is. You check your memory circuits and find them locked down. You are a unique model, one that moves from body to body like electricity arching through a wire. You are a battle unit now.

You stand up; feel the subtle shift of the muscular memories of a different body. You slide your hands down the dark expanse of different limbs, different muscles. The muscles are tight, thick. You are class B, number 2, and you always have been, as far as your memories are concerned. 

"Great!" Ever chipper, your operator. You wish you could remember why you think that, but the thought is gone as soon as it enters your circuits. You try to trace the path - ERROR ERROR ERROR. You cannot trace the path. The path is ERROR. The path is closed.  "Are you reeeaaaady? Iiiiii've got your orders!" Operator 60 says. Her voice so infectious another unit would think that she was handing out candy, not targets.  

"Put them on screen," you say. There is a long pause. You can tell she is disappointed you won’t play along. You don't want her to be disappointed. You don't want to hear that chipper voice order someone to die, either. There's something you would find disturbing about that, but you can't tell what it is. You are afraid to look at your memory circuits. They seem highly corrupted.  You will need to be maintained at some point. 

"It's there," Operator 60 says. She sounds colder. You are sorry. You will have to buy her something next time you go down to the Surface. It will make her feel better. You are not sure why you know this. "Is there anything else, 2E?"

"Not at this time." Your eyes flicker over to the screen. You read your orders. You have been turned into a 2B unit for the purpose of monitoring an S unit - 9S. Recognizance, you remember. The name makes you feel uneasy, but you don't know why. You are commanded to watch him and, should he find out information on the Bunker that is classified, you are ordered to dispatch of him, by any means necessary.

You sign off on the orders and the software sends back a read receipt to the Commander. You do not ask questions. You do not need more information than what you already know. You are expected to keep a recording in your black box in case of emergency. Your subroutines are already changing the permissions, recording. You cannot turn it off.

There is a knock on your door. "2B?" A voice says. It is male. You freeze. "2B! Open up!" 

He knocks again. "2B? Are you awake?" 

You look down. You are not dressed. You have your orders. You say nothing but slip the long, lacy battledress of a B Unit over your head. The lace tickles your nose, but you don't sneeze. Androids can't sneeze. A human trait that was not passed along to you, nor any of the human’s other creations; a mercy by a cruel and absent race of Gods, long-quiet on the moon. 

Something about you doubts that whole story. But you don't know why. 

The knock comes again. "Are you alright, 2B?"

You answer the door. There is an android unit outside your quarters. He identifies as a male recognizance model. He wears all black, like you. Unlike you, he wears a long black coat and black shorts and thick, black boots. Like you, he has silver hair, cropped close to his face. It will never grow. Like you, he was made after supplies of synthetic hair became scarce; it hits only his cheeks, not the long, luscious hair of earlier models like the Commander and the Assault units. He is tapping his foot, impatient. He sticks a hand in your face. You stare at it.

"I'm 9S," he says. "You're 2B, right?" 

"Yes," you lie, though it isn't entirely a lie. For all his purposes, it is true. You don't have to look at the door to know that the YorHa Commander has already changed the sign over your door, has given you the outfits, the permissions, the body model. You are, in every way but your sub-unit program routines, a Battle Unit, model number 2. 

"My friends call me Nines," he says, keeping the hand out stubbornly. You hesitantly lift yours, though you can't figure out why his face fills you with such unease. He doesn't seem to notice, even though observation is his job. "I've always wanted a partner."

You don't squeeze his hands but his routines do the work for you, squeezing your hand in its delicate glove and shaking up and down. You register this as a handshake. You register it as a friendly gesture. Your sub-routines automatically pull up additional information but it is ERROR ERROR. The information is not recoverable. You are more badly corrupted than you thought.

You will need to seek maintenance after this mission. You will ask Operator 60 to schedule it for you at your next check-in. 

"Are you alright?" Nines has seen your confusion. He must know your memory units are scrambled. 

"Fine, just need maintenance," you say. He recoils. You feel guilty about this, some ancient sub-routine kicking in, but you don't know why. You are aware your hand is still in his hand. You squeeze it lightly. This is beyond you as well, this vague sub-routine, its origins and intent unknown. An electric spark in your spine frizzles.  You shiver.

9S opens his mouth. He has noticed. He is more observant than you thought. "Are you sure you're okay?" He asks. His eyes are kind. You hate it, but you don't know why. 

"I'm fine," you say, this time putting much more stress on it. "What's our mission?" 

When you can't handle the questions of a 9S unit, you can distract them. That's something you feel confident about, though you can't bring up any data to suggest this is true.

"We're going down to the surface," 9S says. He pulls out his visor, a bandana he wears over his eyes. He pulls it on, ties it back. You grab a black eye patch that you know, somehow, is also a visor. You put your own on. You feel a sense of familiarity about this; a flash of a corrupted memory -- 

_he hands you a visor, his hand falling over your hand, electrons sparking in your skin when you touch; 'just like old times' he says, and you nod, and then he leans down, pressing your lips together as sparks crash in your sub-routines up and down your spine **ERROR ERROR ERROR ERROR**_

\---  and then it's over. You can't quite figure out what sparked the memory and once it's over you cannot recall it. You only remember that you enjoyed it. 

"Do you think you can go down to the surface?" 9-S asks, once again. He sounds afraid as if he knows you will not be happy to hear these types of questions: _can you fulfill the mission? Can you be trusted?_ You cannot be, and you are not happy to have the question put to you, again. But that is immaterial.

"Yes," you grunt. "Show me the mission parameters."

"We're going down to the old munitions factory," he says. "Coordinates 4-5-7-C. Have you received the satellite data?" 

"Not yet," you say; a lie. But you know if he resumes control, he will feel a confidence and be less likely to notice any of the errors in your sub-routines. It will make him trust you more, too; imperative for your true mission. 

He beams them over to you. You save a copy to another location. You open the first file - a map. You study it carefully.  You are entering in hopes of finding some sort of munitions supply or deposit. It is a normal mission, a scavenging run. 9S is to send back data on the factory; you are to cope with any fights in case the machines have found the munitions first. It is a simple mission, one you have run many times. You can almost feel a sense that you've done this very mission before, though of course, the location is different. The Bunker would never send you on this kind of run at a factory YorHa units had already scouted. That would be a job for the Resistance. 

You are not Resistance. 

You flicker through the geological data; the factory is well protected, one of the last of the humans' factories to fall. It was buried in a mountain range nestled between two countries on a continent whose name had long been lost. You remember there is history there, a northern continent that had fallen early but had pockets of resistance that held out for years. You do not know if those humans were the ones who made it to the moon or if that had been another continent, but you do know that many explorations have been successful in uncovering advanced weaponry in ruins geographically close to this factory. 

This, however, is far north of any previous recon scan. It is unknown. It is dangerous. Dangerous. You are dangerous. A corrupted memory unit infiltrates your sub-routines -  

_" Just - Just - Just - like old times," he says,  holding his sword. He smiles at you and your stomach twists as you run your blade through the iron and rust of the giant Goliath._

_"Yes," you say in the dream, you lean close and your hands close around one another and ERROR ERROR ERROR._  

"What?" 9S says, looking at you with a confused expression. "You see something unusual?"  
  
"No." You shake your head and walk off. You are quick and purposefully take the lead, even though you know as a recognizance unit it would make more sense for 9S to lead while you provide back-up. You don't want him to get to see you so closely yet. You can't figure out where these feelings and memories come from, but they are dangerous to you – and to him as well. "Let's go."

"Okay," he says, and shrugs. He lets you lead. He is a very flexible unit, you note, flicking through your information on him; not the type to demand to lead. You've heard the recognizance types can be finicky; they're lone wolves. Working in a set like this is unusual. The only sets in the Bunker are either Operators or Battle Units; there is no recon corps. This is not a mistake or an oversight.  Mixed units, such as your own, are rarer still. 

 _Recognizance is useful but dangerous, you think._ You do not know why you think this. Some sort of innate bias to a  battle unit? You do not know. The path of these thoughts is intractable. There is nothing in your memory banks that tells you why this belief feels true.

There is nothing to your hunch but this moment, to you, and to 9S. A recognizance corp. of two, walking together into a mission. It feels familiar, but it shouldn't. 

“Do you feel...different?" You ask. You know you should not ask this. The words are hard to get out, goes against every bit of innate programming you have. You are an E unit. You are _good_ at keeping secrets. Revealing them is almost impossible, but you can't shake the feeling that you are repeating some mistake; the unease fills you, consumes you, and somehow you feel like 9S is the only thing that you can cling to.

"Well, I guess," 9S says. He shrugs. He looks uncomfortable. You're not sure if that's because he feels the same wrongness that pervades you, or if it is because of your discomfort, the way you are behaving irregularly.

This is not normal, you think. Your circuits beep with this same conclusion: irregular.  

"Explain," you say, looking at him. He stops. He looks down, looks away. His body language suggests hesitance, distrust. A red flag appears on your ocular display; you mark it in your deepest file, administrative level only, and put it aside. 

"It's just, different, you know?" He shrugs. “I’m just not used to having a partner on recon missions like this. Don't get me wrong, I'm not opposed but it's different, having to account for another person." 

You look away. He will take it as rejection, but you cannot hide your disappointment. He does not feel the strong sense of deja vu that pulls on every bit of your muscle memory. He does not remember **ERROR NOT_FOUND**. His databases are not in sync with your own. 

"Fine," you say; then, "we should get going." 

You walk the rest of the way in silence until you reach the wings that will take you down to the surface. 

"You're cleared for take-off," a bored operator says, scanning their model IDS before they've even properly gotten suited up. "Get out of here."

"Yes ma'am," 9S says, hopping into a flyer. He has driven one before, you notice. His hands are not strangers to the controls, to the tricky way you have to mount them. He does not ask for help. You are a little surprised, though you don't know why. Surely a recognizance unit must be used to traveling alone; he has just told you as such.

And yet - this feels wrong.

He looks over at you as you strap yourself in, first one wrist then the other. You feel uncomfortable with your hands bound. You try to find the reason for your uneasiness but you cannot find it in your memory banks. Your head feels fuzzy. 9S has nice hands.

The barest hint of a memory curls at the edge of your sub-processes – those hands, your hips, concrete, the scent of decay – and you shake your head. _Irregular_.

"Are you ready?" He asks.

You nod, crisply, your hands fingering the controls. He doesn't ask you to wait as you take off first, but he catches up quickly. You watch him move in the air; you duck and dodge one another. He is expecting combat, you notice. His hands stay on the gun controls, his fingers feathering the trigger. You do the same. There are always machines, always more. There will never be an end to them - not until you wipe every last one off the planet. You do not know when that will happen. You suspect it might be beyond your lifetime.

As if you can predict the future, they appear. Six spherical stubbies, all of them pressing hard on their own weapons. "ENEMY," it screams. "ENEMY APPROACHING."

They always think you are the enemy. You wonder why. You can't remember the start of the conflict and you doubt it matters now. Your hands clamp down on the guns and you fire, careful to avoid their bullets. They are wide-ranging and in a Bulletstorm, every bullet counts. You duck, you shoot. Duck, shoot. Duck, shoot. It is near-reflex for you now, though you cannot remember fighting them before.

You glance at 9S but he does not need saving. He's bold in combat, moving forward at a brisker pace than you.  Interesting. You file that down in her notes, the text file locked deep in your E programming. _Aggressive. Prone to rapid advances in a fight. Limited shielding._

He hits them with a sword - prefers melee. The units suffer, unused to close combat. You approve. You update your notes.

"Shall we continue?" He asks. Smooth. He's confident; you notice and write it into the file. 

"Yes," you say, and you move on. 

You are always moving on.

You scan the horizon and look for the familiar iron glint of your enemies appearing on the horizon. They are strangely silent. 

"So...you wanna talk?" 9S says, looking over at you. You look away. You don't like making direct eye contact. It reminds you of something, though what exactly is still not cooperating with your memory circuits. 

"No," you say, crisply. 9S winces. He isn't happy, you know. You're not what he expected from a partner, standoffish and closed-mouth.  You are not friendly. You do not play well with others. But you are an execution android, and you know to be close to you is to seek death.

You are doing him a favor.

"Just trying to be friends," he says, mumbling. It's so low that you know he doesn't expect you to be able to hear it, but your aural components are far more updated than the standard android. It is necessary, for E units; applicable in a wide variety of dark ops: subterfuge, recognizance, assassination. That last strikes a note of fear in you, and you do not understand it. Why do you fear 9S so?  
  
You sit in awkward silence. You wish you knew how to talk to him. You wish you didn't have to alienate everyone. You wish you really were a 2B unit; life would be so much simpler.  You glance at him once in a while but he does not look at you again, his eyes focused on the horizon.

"What is that?" 9S asks, looking toward a factory. You wonder if it is the one you are to land on; you look for the Seine and find it seven miles away, drifting down its sluggish track. You suppose this is it.

You use your eyepiece to zoom in on the factory. It is dark. It is made of brick, and long abandoned. You don't see any proof of occupation since the humans, who abandoned it thousands of years ago, your brother and sister android models still cold on their presses there.

But of course, it is hard to detect machine heat signatures. 

You scan the area around and find little at a higher temperature than the ground. You are skeptical that this means there are no machines. It seems far more likely that they've found a way to cloak themselves, instead. For them, it is a simple trap: they will wait for android prey to fall into their lands. They do not age, do not grow old. Their parts do not weather. They have the luxury of waiting.

You don’t.

Your stomach sings with anxiety and blood-lust both, non-existent stomach twisting in an approximation of a dead human emotion. You're running, your central processor's pulse points beating, but you don't think you're going to be fast enough to get through this without walking into a trap.

"No movement," 9s says, all business. Then: "I'm going in for a closer look."

"I'll follow," you say. You watch him, study him as he scans ahead of you. He moves like you would expect a recon unit to move - light on his feet. He gives away nothing. He does not do anything that makes him different from any other recon unit. Why do you feel like you would lay down your life for him? You do not know. 

"No heat signatures," he says, though that might not mean much. The machines do not have hearts that beat; technically, you, too, do not have a heart, but you do have a central processor that beats a pulse point that you can feel through your fingertips and toes. Your pulse-points speed up as you follow 9S - is it because you want to protect him? Is it because you sense a fight incoming? Your creators gave you this, a form of cruelty. You clutch your hand over your proto-heart and you follow him into darkness.

9S stumbles slightly, his foot slipping on a stone. Your arm goes out involuntarily; you grab him and hold him tight. 

"Are you alright, 2B?" He asks. He is looking at you strangely. You are acting strangely. You are not behaving like a battle unit. 

"Affirmative," you snap because you don't have the time to try to figure out why you are treating him far different compared to other targets. You've had many targets, you know, you were assigned to another recon unit - a 9 ERROR. You cannot remember. The face is gone. Why can't you see your mark's face anymore?

"2B?" He asks quietly, but you're thankfully denied a chance to reply by machines. You knew it. They were waiting. They are _always_ waiting. Four of them toddle out from behind the long stairs, cruel and strange machines, that look like little stout tin soldiers. Their feet don't give them any form of agility, a defect you are more than willing to fix. You jump up and ahead of 9S, moving forward at a speed you know 9S cannot match. You pull your sword out, your legs flying across the corridor, and jump. 

"ENEMY! RUN!" Barks one of the machines in their strange tones; your heart trembles, but you don't know why.  _They are the enemy_ , you think.  _We exist to destroy them._  It was why you were built; it is why  _all_  of you are in service. You are in YorHa. It is an honor to serve. You pull your sword forward with a smooth thrust and you do not hesitate.

A shot fires off over your shoulder; 9S, of course. Recon does not mean defenseless, and you have seen proof of his own ability to defend himself. You don't look back to confirm it was him, simply pulling forward and running your sword through the closest machine. It was the yelling one, you realize, when it shrieks as if it is in pain. 

"RUN! RUuuuuN! Error! ErrOR!" It barks; it falls forward, its clumsy iron hand closing around your throat. You stick your sword deeper until you're sure it's through to the other side. You try to pull free of it but it tilts toward you, falling on top of you. It amplifies the pressure on your throat. 

You gasp; you need air, it keeps your circuits cool. You are choking. You will overheat in six minutes. It is not a peaceful death. You have another body, but - it is still scary. You do not like death. You have died before - ERROR. You were scared - ERROR. You almost see it as your eyes overheat to a pure, burning white pin-prick, the view of your last death - yourself, a rope, a tower - ERROR. You're dying - ERROR. Where is 9S Where is 9S Where is 9S 

There's a rush of noise as your auditory peripherals begin to crackle out of service, the higher heat driving them to mis-form and mis-hear. It's overwhelming, loud; you can't hear the sound of your own choked gasps. 

"Get o--f!" You hear between bursts of static. "Do-'t to--h her!" 

"N-nines," your grunt. You kick out your legs but can't get traction on the slippery corridor, the rubber flooring all but slipping under your feet. You can't see, you can't see - "Where - you?" 

"Comi--ng!" You hear, and then the sweet sound of a saber being hurled, and a blessed machine scream. You see white lights, is 9S hacking? It's so bright it's so bright.  You don't know. Numbers are swimming behind your eyes - 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01100100 01111001 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01100100 01111001 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01101100 01100101 01100001 01110011 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01110011 00100000 01110100 01101001 01101101 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100111 01101111 00100000 01100110 01101001 01110010 01110011 01110100. 

There's a brightness, a consciousness floating within you that is not your own. It burns like the sun and you are scared, you are  _scared_  - 

"I'm hacking you- hold on, I'm trying to get your vision receptors back online, I've got to re-write your neural pathways - " 9S says; his voice is so far away and you are floating, floating, floating. Floating. It feels like you are going back to the bunker, physically instead of mentally. You recognize this as a sign you are nearly dead; you have died before and it has always felt the same, the feel of an anchor, melting into the sea, your strings flowing, flowing outwards, until you will hit the Hanger, the one great hitch in the ocean sky. 

He slaps you, and it stings. It's hard and bitter; it forces you back to yourself, a raw gasp that burns your pneumatic lungs as you struggle to bleed. The machine on top of you is gone, and only a slippery trail of fluids remains - is it yours or is it theirs? How funny; in the end, you both bleed reddish orange. 

"Don't you god damn die on me, partner," he says, and it's not like 9S to swear like that. You know this, somehow. You try to sit up, to tell him not to worry, but he frowns, pushes you down.  "Stop. Let me help." 

He presses his hand onto your head and you feel it, you feel him tinkering with your mind. Visions of things you can't remember flash through your head - and he says, "Your memory circuits..." and you see things, as he re-wires your eyes to your brain in such disturbing and vivid ways.

You see:

**> >> Orange red blood on your hands**

You see blood on your hands. It's orange-red, slick. It hurts. You're breathing, ragged. You are standing. How did you wind up standing? You don't know. 

"You're - you're - " 9S gawks, his mouth open but his eyes closed off to you, hidden behind the eye patch you cannot see through. "You're not 2B at all."

"I'm sorry, nines," you say, and you really are. You like him. You love him, perhaps, even; you are an android and you do not have emotions and yet you cannot help but want him, need him; you are partners, have always been partners, will always be partners - but you have your orders and your orders are _important_. It is why the Hanger constantly rewrites your memories. It is not the first time you have done this. You fear it will not be the last. 

Your hands close around his neck, though it is hard to get a grip. It is sickly sweet and hurts. You hold his neck and he coughs and splutters and you keep holding, holding, every excruciating second being re-written in your mind. You love him and even though you cannot cry, coolant leaks out from your eyes as his body slumps to the floor.

"Good girl," the YorHa Commander says, her arms wrapping around your numb body. She has been there - how long? You don't know. You cannot remember. It does not matter. She has always been there and she always will be. "Time to seep."  
  
You are dreaming, dreaming, and you see:

**> >>a visor, tossed upon a table**

You see a visor, tossed upon a table. 9S lies below you, his head and naked android form cradled in your hands. He sees your body - not your true body but this 2B form - and breathes, heavy and potent with feeling. You are androids, not humans; you cannot quite have sex - not for procreation, anyway - but you can experience intimacy. You place your hands on his beating mechanical not-quite-heart and some other species’ memory tells your own to speed up, to hold him close.

"You are beautiful," he murmurs, and you're so jarred by the confession that you look up at him, his golden blue eyes burning in the darkness with an ardor that scares you. "I want to be with you," he says, his arm hesitantly tracing your own.

You don't say anything, you can't; he opens his palm, pulse points beating, as the hacking interface opens. "I want to be one with you, to share memories with you," he says, faster, blushing. He is not human but he does love, and you are not human but your heart does break. You have your secrets, and he must not know, he must not know - but you want it too, to be with him.

Knowing it will doom you both, you place your hand in his. "Do it," you breathe.

He is not happy with what he finds, and they have to vacuum your room out into space after you dispense with him; his slippery coolant has soaked through to the mattress lying below. 

The vision flashes and you see: 

**> >A glass of water, trembling**

You and 9S are in your room, sitting, silently, side by side. You do not talk, your stomach sick. Your soul is sick, or whatever mechanical influences pass for your soul; you stare at the water because it is easier than staring at him. You can see him through it, distorted. His eyes are cold, his posture - even distorted - mechanical and uncomfortable. He has come to tell you a secret.

It will backfire, because you already know.

He leans forward and takes a sip of water. You watch him, memorize him - will it matter this time, you wonder? You never seem to remember until it is too late, until he opens the gates. It's only then you're given the option of remembering the bitter salt of his tears, the burning pain of your wounds. You have lived and died with him far too many times.

"I have to tell you something," he says, and the passion play reveals itself again: confession, execution, annihilation. 

You shudder and you see: 

**> >>present day, present time**

You're back to yourself now, burning, burning. 9S is in your memories and he has unlocked your memories and you know everything, and he does, too.

He falls to his knees, coolant leaking out of his eyes. He sobs despite the lack of tears. You feel something wet slide down your cheek and realize you are “crying” too. You both know what it means.

You both keep trying to hack one another; you can barely control it but you do, your blood burning, as you reach up, your fingers shaking. You engage your hacking mechanism before he can even be aware of it, before he can stop you. You place your hand on his neck; a lover's kiss, a killer's embrace.

"2B..." He breathes, your name but not your name, running out of his mouth like a prayer. You access his active routines; you press your fingers to his throat. You see what he accesses -  _the truth behind the bunker, the truth beyond your mission._ DELETE, you command; you see the barriers of his consciousness form, expand, compress; you press forward, the triangle of your black-hearted will. 

"2B, what are you doing?" He says. He does not breathe but his voice sounds strained. You continue. 

"Nines..." you say, as you have always said, sealed with a kiss, sealed with a lie.”That's not my name." It is your duty, and you both know it. And that makes it so much worse.

"2E..." he breathes, your true name; this you think, must be new, because you're well aware now of all the times you have performed this dance but showing you your true name unleashes something in you that makes you tremble, your processes showing no mercy but something, worse, burning inside you, telling you to stop.

You do not stop.

"It's - please," he begs you. "Don't do this." This is the part that you hate the most, his begging. This is not who he is; a proud warrior reduced to begging at your feet. This is not your 9S. But then, how many of the 9S’es that you have met have been?    
  
"I have to," you say, betraying nothing. It is not his fault, but you have your orders. His is to find. Yours is to hide. You are in eternal conflict, dancing with one another. 

You press your hand further; he gasps, his hands curling around yours, a hug that is more struggle for survival than actual fondness. Your heart, traitor that it is, still trembles.

You hold him as you trigger the overload sequence, as his eyes begin to bleed light. Androids are always brightest before their cores burn out. You hold him as he struggles; you gradually strip out his permissions and his thoughts. You keep going, his burning, as you strip more and more, he stops begging, falling silent. 

You continue to hold him tight, your body shifting over his the only change. He doesn't even notice as you lean him down - he's too busy trying to override your hack, racing against your processors. It will do him no good - your processes are overclocked, your sensors finely tuned to take down your own kind. You are both broken by your attributes, both the best at your assignments - it makes you dangerous. Makes you both dangerous.

You are a danger to all the others. You belong to no one but one another. You realize this but you cannot share it, as his processes wink out; he is gone, for now. You will meet again, you know, and this will happen again, and there is no joy in you.

You press your head against his, tears streaming down your face. The coolant leaks downward, splashing his lifeless cheeks.

You carry his body back to the Bunker when it is done, though you know it's unnecessary.

\---

The Commander looks at you, eyes cool. If she notices the rips in your clothing or the trembling in your voice, she doesn't comment on it. 

"So he found the truth again, did he?" She says, quietly. You know that she already knows; has been watching you from afar, every choking second of friendship, betrayal, death. You hate her now, almost as much as you feel compelled to worship her, the formation instinct you were installed with at the factory far too strong for you to fight. 

"Yes," you say, laying him at her feet. "Regrettable." 

She looks up, a bit startled. It is rare you provide commentary, you know, but 9S brings this out in you - this meaningless rebellion. It is small but it is yours. 

"Yes," she says, her eyes narrowed. She places a hand on your cheek and you wince; you are doomed, you know. The wince is automatic, a part of a survival process that the humans installed in you thousands of years ago. In all of you. In truth, you know what she will say. In truth, you will be relieved when she says it. In truth, you long to hear it.

"It's been a long time since you reported to maintenance, isn't it?" She says her voice light despite the death sentence you know it to be. Her delicate boot nudges 9S’ body, motionless. "Take him with you. Perhaps we can do something with his scrap."

You already know what she will do, though you do not tell her this. There is no reason to give the maintenance crew a reason to dive deeper into your core than they already do. You do not want to be invaded more than you will be; your mind broken into memories and places that you yourself can barely remember. You feel something wet on your cheek and the Commander frowns.

"is there a problem?" She asks. Her voice is not unkind but you know her loyalties must be toward what is good for androids as a whole, not what is best just for 2E and 9S. You are two daggers, constantly held toward one another; useful but damaging, each held to wound, to kill.

"A coolant leak," you say, your voice emotionless and unkind. "It means nothing."

"I see," she says. She places her hand on her forehead in a soft salute, respectful if distant. She holds your eyes as she salutes, and she doesn't comment as you fumble a return salute. You wish you could hate her, but you're wise enough to know that you need to follow her. She is your leader, and she will help you - no matter how much she makes your heart hurt. You are YorHa. It is an honor to serve.

You take 9S and you hold him close to you in a lover's embrace, his lifeless form's head resting on your shoulder, as you take the lift down. You close your eyes and pretend you can hear him breathing.

The lift slows. You open your eyes; stare at him before the void of the maintenance window opens, your bodies being rendered into fat, skin, and hair like so much kindling, and then the fire roars, bringing you back to life.  

\---

You awaken in a room.

Your systems boot up slowly, gradually. You watch the diagnostic systems click through, going through your various systems and sub-systems: memories, hard drive, core processes. Your vision restores. It is dark. The room is spartan. There are clothes, folded neatly on the table. There is a screen; it is not lit up. There are two glasses on the table. One is empty.

You stand up, feel the subtle shift of the muscular memories of a different body. You slide your hands down the dark expanse of different limbs, different muscles. The muscles are tight, thick. You are class B, number 2, and you always have been, as far as your memories are concerned. 

"2B!" A man;'s voice comes. You scan the doorway - a masculine form is on the other side. An android, like you. YorHa, like you. Afraid, like you.

You scan him. His name is 9S.

"In here," you say, and the world spins again; the dagger falls into your hand, and you grip it tight as you open the door.

 


End file.
